Then to my Gladness still I cried: 'And how canst thou abide?--' Here, where my listening heart must hark These sorrows rising from the Dark Where still they starve, and strive and die, Who bear each heaviest penalty Of humanhood;--nor grasp, nor guess, The garment's hem of happiness!-- The spear-wound throbbing in my song, It throbs more bitterly than wrong,-- It burns more wildly than despair,-- The will to share, The will to share! Little I knew,--the blind-fold I,-- Joy would become like agony,-- Like arrows of the Sun in me! * * * * * I hold thee here. I have thee, now,-- And I am human. But what art thou!' My Gladness answered me: 'Wayfarer, wilt thou understand?-- Follow me on. And keep my hand.' THE NIGHTINGALE UNHEARD Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time We followed on, from moon to golden moon; From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon, And the far rose of Pæstum once did climb. All the white way beside the girdling blue, Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime, We listened;--from the old year to the new. Brown bird, and where were you? You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats! Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats; Nor yet--of all bird-song should glorify-- Assisi, Little Portion of the blest, Assisi, in the bosom of the sky, Where God's own singer thatched his sunward nest; That little, heavenliest! And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are, That beckon with white looks an endless way; Where, through the fair wet silverness of May, A lamb shines out as sudden as a star, Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale, The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far, And the red may-trees wear a shining veil. --And still, no nightingale! The one vain longing,--through all journeyings, The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot,-- All the soft-swarming dark where you were not, Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings, And wonders, that your own must ever make To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings; And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache;-- Even for Music's sake. But most, his music whose belovèd name Forever writ in water of bright tears, Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years, That kindle there the hallowed April flame Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same, Violets still!--When falls, to leave no sign, The arch of Constantine. Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he, From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe, Your song once shook to surging overflow. How was it, sovran dweller of the tree, His cry, still throbbing in the flooded shell Of silence with remembered melody, Could draw from you no answer to the spell? --O Voice, O Philomel?